KKM 'Poser'
by tigersilver
Summary: Wolfram may or may not be a great artiste, but the Maou can still show him a few tricks. Smuff: Please be warned!
1. Chapter 1

KKM 'Poser'

He'd been dragged by one ear to Wolfram's art studio. Not unusual, really, but generally Yuuri tried to cooperate at least to some extent with Wolf's artistic moments. This time, though, he'd been in the midst of doing something he actually enjoyed very much: playing catch with the younger contingent of the Castle town and teaching them the basics of baseball in the process.

"Cute!" Wolfram had yelled at him five minutes ago – accusingly, as if it were _his_ fault. "You're just too _cute_, you stupid wimp! Come here this moment!"

Up till then, the jealous fire-wielder had been content to survey the gaggle of beginner ball players surrounding Yuuri from his perch in the sideline bleachers, a book (Sun Tzu's Mazoku translation of _The Art of War_, courtesy of Shori) prominently displayed in his lap, and the young Maou had believed Wolf-chan was simply present to ensure that none of the watching mamas made any impertinent moves on the Head Coach. When Yuuri had protested his hurried removal from practice – and he'd done this fairly belligerently all the way down the Castle's marbled hallways and all the way up the endless granite staircases to the studio– his fiancé had only snagged a sensitive earlobe and forced him along in a nasty version of a Texas two-step.

"But, Wolf – I'm dirty! Like, like, _filthy!_ I've still got my uniform on!" Yuuri whined, dragging his cleats mulishly.

It hadn't mattered – indeed, that was precisely what was so _cute_, his fiancé explained impatiently – that streak of dust on Yuuri's cheek, his startling dark hair in disarray from his cap, the perspiration—

He'd wanted to paint the 'raw' Yuuri anyway, Wolf confessed absentmindedly over his shoulder, his green eyes a tad misty, and pinched the smarting tab of flesh even harder in his inattention, because he'd been dying on the vine artistically for months now and really needed a break from all those formal portraits of the Maou he'd labored over with such industry – not to mention the fact the wimp never seemed to properly appreciate his efforts no matter _how_ Wolfram portrayed him!

"Humph!" Wolfram sniffed in miffed punctuation, ripping the studio door open and pushing Yuuri across the doorsill willy-nilly before him.

Sunlight and motes of glittering dust filled the cavernous space Wolfram claimed for his artsy hide-away. Sketches that demonstrated a huge lack of creative talent were fastened here and there on the carved stone pillars that supported the looming ceiling with cellotape, courtesy of Shori, who'd brought along any number of useful items in his pockets the last time he'd dropped by. Wolfram's easel lurked stolidly near one of the huge windows.

"F-formal?" Yuuri gulped, clutching his throbbing ear as Wolf-chan shoved him onto a convenient stool and started fussing with various props.

An American-style football (_and how had _that _gotten here?_ Yuuri wondered fleetingly); a Hanshin _Tigers _pennant; some ice skates: all were examined and discarded by Wolf-chan in turn.

"Is _that _what you call them?"

Yuuri shuddered a bit at the memories of back pain and jeweled codpieces, but nonchalantly tried to shrug off his instinctive fear of 'bad art' before his blonde Picasso actually noticed anything amiss.

"Wimp! Tell me, then…exactly what do you _mean_ when you say 'that'?"

"…Uh, um, _n-nothing?"_

"Right, wimp. You'd better make _sure_ you mean 'nothing'. Now, _are _you going to sit still for me or _not_?"

"Uh…sure?"

The Maou manifestly steamrolled, his fiancé clucked at him still in mild irritation as he dashed about, arranging bat and catcher's glove and ball to his satisfaction, and paid no attention to Yuuri's furtive meeps and mopes about fading light and lost teaching opportunities. Finally, Wolf-chan settled into sketching and a solid hour passed, with Yuuri effectively bullied into the utter stillness of a 'casual, sporting, gentlemanly' pose and the inspired _artiste_ frantically huffing charcoal dust off his canvas every other moment.

Yuuri, never one to cause a scene, good-naturedly put up with it, but _now_ - one hour and three minutes later, precisely, from the time baseball practice had been called on account of 'cuteness' – now, he had his mouth fastened firmly on one pinkened nipple and his grubby hands trailing familiarly across Wolfram's long torso. His fiancé flinched beneath him, unable to escape from his newest position, pressed firmly up against a handy nearby pillar. The young Maou's nose was mashed into the warm hollow between Wolfram's shoulder blade and his breastbone and his dark eyes were narrowed in a very dangerous fashion as he sucked viciously, leaving behind a reddened welt possessively emblazoned on Wolf's milk-white skin. A noble Mazoku heart thundered madly beneath Yuuri's cheekbone and the blonde-haired person gasped for breath at the end of the suckling, only barely managing to keep his legs locked under his sagging weight.

"Yuuri!"

Just a scant three minutes ago Wolfram had taken the measure of an ardent young Maou decisively disrobing and had backed up defensively from his easel, one booted heel tentatively set behind another, until he finally broke under the blacker-than-hellfire gaze and scuttled crabwise toward the door he'd locked himself.

"--For _privacy_, Yuuri, since I'm sick and tired of always being interrupted when we finally get to spend some precious time together, stupid wimp!" he'd exclaimed with some impatience when the black-haired boy tried to hide his desperate glances at his last tiny hope of escape – a welcome visitor, or one of the maids, or maybe even Conrad --just one hour and four long minutes ago.

"Shinou's Spit, Yuuri! You'd think you didn't want to do this!" Wolf had harrumphed in annoyance, and the Maou had rushed to assure his ardent lover that 'no, no, _really_, that wasn't _it_—!'

"Well, _what_, then? What is_ it_? You have something _better _to do then spend a few minutes making me happy?" Wolfram had demanded, green eyes aglitter.

A foot had tapped impatiently, staccato in the pregnant pause while Wolf-chan shuffled his art supplies. Yuuri had correctly guessed this sound was a sign of imminent mortal danger – unless he shut up and got on with it.

Well, he had. He _had_. The problem was, there was nothing to _do_ when one was posing for a portrait. He couldn't very well read a book (like he would, voluntarily, since the book would no doubt be one of Gunter's terrible text-heavy tomes of terminal boredom) or even watch the courtyard's bustle through the open windows, because Wolf-chan barked furiously whenever he twitched from the position in which he'd been arranged and besides, he'd been posed just a little too far from the windows to actually see out.

He couldn't even chat with his fiancé and take advantage of the quiet time they were perforce having together. Wolfram _never _listened when he was in the midst of a masterpiece; he wouldn't hear even if Yuuri shouted or the actual walls came tumbling down. He was oblivious when the muse took him and, on several occasions, Yuuri had taken advantage of that, getting a good head start on Wolf-chan before his fiancé even realized he was gone.

But this time the young man sat, patiently, still in his sweaty uniform, ball clutched loosely in one hand, bat slung across his lap. Silently he watched Wolfram, his eyes alighting almost by accident on his fiancé's finely chiseled features after a long, boring tour of the same-old, same-old studio. The faint frown that gathered across the blonde's brow intrigued Yuuri; he knew Wolf adored this whole painting thingie – why, then, was he frowning at his canvas the same way he frowned at Yuuri sometimes?

Maybe the work was frustrating him – Yuuri knew _he_ was frustrating as well, since Wolf made sure to let him know fairly often. But Wolfram loved a challenge, as he also often informed his fiancé, and he was more than demon-spawn enough to whip any wimpy little 'challenge' into shape.

The tangential thought of whipping made Yuuri squirm uneasily on his stool and Wolfram snapped at him immediately and verbally chivvied him back into position, momentarily cowed.

Yuuri grinned after some additional cogitation – on the inside, so it wouldn't disrupt the 'properly sporting' expression Wolf-chan demanded of him - and thought about brushes instead.

The Mazoku artist had many; some long and broad, some short and comprised of barely a few hairs. He took excellent care of them, as Yuuri knew from experience, having been roped into washing bearbee-poo from expensive wands of sable bristle and maple all too often for his personal comfort level. Wolf-chan treasured his brushes and kept them stashed away under lock-and-key when he wasn't painting, fearful of Greta's curious fingers and other hazards. They sat behind him now on the bench he used for his supplies, splayed out in a fan of fawn-and-tan. Yuuri considered their apparent softness, their flexibility and their potential uses, and the next time his black eyes landed on Wolf's bishonen face, fierce with undiluted concentration, they were curiously hot.

The Mazoku paid no attention to his gaze and Yuuri did not seek it: he studied the rosy lower lip caught tightly between perfect white teeth instead. He perused the curve of ripe cornsilk that swung before his fiancé's marvelous eyes when he stretched and moved across the face of the large canvas, sketching hastily, and remembered how cobweb-soft those strands were when sliding through his fists, how sweetly they were scented with violets or the teasing whiff of honey-and-almonds.

The young Maou swallowed hard, salivating, and thought that Wolfram von Bielefeld made him hungry in so very many ways. Those ears, for instance, delicate and full of hidden shadows. When he thrust his tongue into their hollows, his fiancé always whimpered softly in pleasure and rolled his hips invitingly. Or that deliciously long and elegant throat, almost always carefully hidden behind a froth of silly lace, now exposed by the more forgiving neckline of the blonde's loose artist's smock. The blue-veined flesh of that column called him, begging the Maou to bite it and lick it, echoing the practiced movements his lips and tongue so often performed on certain 'other' parts of the beautiful Wolfram.

Yuuri could not help but go on to admire the exquisite lines of the form that flexed beneath the fabric: long and lean and muscled in all the right places, curved and soft and sensitive in all the 'other' right places. The thought of white skin captive beneath all that royal blue serge and tight-laced frogging made Yuuri yearn. He discovered he wanted to paint his own picture: the two of them in the privacy of their shared bed, wrestling and panting in the mock-battle of love.

Of course, the Maou didn't need a bed to enjoy the pleasures of his fiancé. Almost any surface would do – desk, tree trunk, stone wall….floor. Anywhere that had sufficient support so that he could drive deep into those velvet depths and make sure Wolf-chan realized exactly how much he was appreciated.

Under his dusty baseball uniform, the teenaged Maou felt the stirrings of his ready 'appreciation'. He swallowed back an embarrassed huff – this kind of thing happened all too often these days, no matter what the circumstances – and dutifully resolved to continue waiting till Wolf-chan was finally done. It was the least he could do. Besides, the honey would be sweeter still if Yuuri's mercurial fiancé was pleased with him for being so godsdamned patient…and he'd learned he couldn't live happily without his daily dose of 'Wolfram sugar'.

He was kind of like the lab rat of Love, wasn't he, then? And Wolfram was cheese, enticing and golden and full of wickedly interesting 'holes'.

The moments ticked past in this manner, a quiet hush falling over the Mazoku's sacred 'art' studio. But Wolfram's unhappy pout grew at the same pace as the bulge in Yuuri's striped knickers; the last quarter-hour was dense with stifled tension of one sort or another.

The Maou's fiancé sighed eventually, still unusually inattentive of the real live Maou right in front of him, and threw down his charcoal and his shading wedge with a stifled snort, obviously exasperated.

"Take a break, Yuuri," the Mazoku artist ordered offhandedly, and retreated a pace or two to give his recent attempts a good gander.

"Shinou's Blade! What can't I _get_ this?!" Wolfram demanded of his canvas a tense moment later, eyeing the grayish scribbles on it with utter disgust and waving his soot-coated fingers in the air. A whole hour had fled and still he was no closer to firmly grasping the nebulous concept of the 'real' Shibuya Yuuri and plastering it firmly down in clear black lines and white spaces.

Wolf was distressed: he'd _so _wanted to capture Yuuri's playfulness, too, that boyish charm that tickled even his own rather austere fancy. It would be the perfect complement to those regal life-size images of the Demon King he'd already composed and decked every available hall with.

"What am I, untalented or something?" Wolfram asked the echoing room rhetorically after yet another extended sneer at his own progress, still not actually 'seeing' the Maou's slow rise to his feet in the corner of his peripheral vision. The baseball bat was laid gently on the floor, the mitt and ball stashed next to it, and long-fingered hands whipped over the Maou's long back and flat stomach, lifting and tugging the dirt-streaked striped knit shirt from sweat-chilled skin. Yuuri shook out leg cramps as he stretched, and tugged off his cleats and socks without any of his usual stumbling, advancing in a deliberate manner as he stripped.

"….Wolfram?"

The query was in a slightly deeper register than the Mazoku noble expected; when he finally shifted his gaze from canvas to 'cute' betrothed, the Maou was at his elbow, his jersey and belt hanging limply from broad, tanned hands. He was also rather taller and broader across the shoulders than he'd been just sixty minutes ago, at the beginning of their artistic endeavour.

Wolfram inhaled sharply. The Great Maou! But why _now_? And why _here_?

Immediately, he cocked his head, ears keen for the sound of steel clashing and shouting guardsmen, but the air was peaceful, with no sounds of attack to react to – so why _was_ Yuuri going Alter Ego?

The Maou smiled _(Danger! Danger, Wilhem von Robinson!)_ and acted with lightning speed, deliberately forcing Wolfram to back up a step or be run over. The Maou's dark eyes glittered with intent and Wolfram gulped down another sharp breath, his abdomen clenching in visceral memory of his dealings with 'other' Yuuri.

That was the minute in which Wolfram von Bielefeld stepped quite carefully away from his abortive artwork and glanced a little wildly at the studio door.


	2. Chapter 2

KKM 'POSER'

The split-second after his fatal hesitation was when Wolfram was snagged by two capable broad hands and slammed roughly up against one of room's six supporting pillars, the black-smeared smock removed expertly from his torso as if by magic. Wolfram hissed in annoyance at being so rudely handled and automatically made as if to fight the firm grip that held him.

"Wolfram," growled Maou Yuuri in warning and the throb in the blonde soldier's stomach made its way further down by rapid degrees. He was already melting, the heat flaring dangerously from the apex of his thighs.

His lower lip was teased mid-pout with a glancing nip from Yuuri's teeth and he never even had the chance to exclaim that shocked cry of "Pervert!" hovering on the tip of his tongue: his tongue had been taken over. A devouring mouth crushed his and conquered it completely, pillaging the sensitive insides of his cheeks with a probing tongue, enticing his own squirming organ into a salacious waltz of lechery.

Oh, but it was good. More than good—there were probably much better adjectives to describe this but he couldn't think of any right now, 'cause he couldn't think—and he was already well-trained to respond to overtures such as this one through muscle-memory alone, though not usually from the persona of the Great Maou himself. Needless to say, Wolfram was salivating and flushed pink in seconds, every square inch of his body on high alert.

Wolf moaned faintly at the welcome invasion and clutched at the Maou's bare shoulders, struggling to press his own naked chest against Yuuri's – find some comfort in the maelstrom; ground the lightning that chased across his nerve-endings. But his suddenly willful Royal fiancé allowed the pleasure of an embrace only briefly, urging Wolf up against a barrier of fluted stone and nibbling down the length of his flushed throat instead with an air of pleasant determination.

"Yuuri!"

The Maou's mouth slid purposefully to Wolfram's heaving ribcage and found nipples already hardening, raspberry nubs of achiness that turned into dousing rods of electricity when suckled. The painful gratification shot straight to the Mazoku's groin and he stumbled in place, entangled, weakly thrusting out his blue-clad thighs and undulating them in the hopes of coaxing his lover ever closer.

The Maou rumbled again and nudged the cradle of Wolf's straining pelvis back against the pillar with one bony hip, keeping him pinned there with that and a hard hand to one shoulder. He slid questing fingers down to the waistband of his own regulation knickers and grabbed the artist's tool he'd discreetly tucked there, swiped from Wolfram's supplies but a few moments ago when he was first on the prowl to capture his nervous fiancé.

It was a medium-wide sable brush, meant for laying on filler and thick shading strokes of color, and it was scrupulously clean and glinting whitely, each separate silky bristle ending in a hair-fine tip. At the sight of it, Wolf stopped pushing himself away from the pillar he was trapped against and blinked in confusion instead. He couldn't think why Yuuri would be waving one of his precious expensive brushes in front of his pert nose.

A twist of the Maou's nimble fingers arrowed the brush head into position – Yuuri chuckled, a deep sound, distinctly like the growl of an animal and far more suitable for his current body than his usual boyish laugh.

"Oh no! _Yuuri!_ You don't mean to!"

The emerald eyes fixed on the brush were widening in apparent horror – and unadulterated lust. Wolf turned his head away in rejection of the wicked fantasy he'd never even considered sharing with his fiancé–his head being the only part of him free enough to move at that point, for the Maou—taller and broader at the moment, and positively brimming with a crackling of potent raw power—easily controlled the rest of him. Wolf stole a glance back and visibly winced at the thrill of his own reaction to that dark, guttural laughter.

Wolf was already lost, but that didn't mean he had to admit it.

Maou Yuuri bared his even teeth sharply in a not-quite smile and brought the fine tickling tip of the brush teasingly close to one exposed nipple. He brushed the layer of air above it and the sizzle of sensuous motion leapt the tiny distance, sparking off a further conflagration within the Mazoku's chest. Wolfram swallowed so hard his Adam's apple bobbed and thrust out a frantic hand in denial.

"Yuuri, no! You _wouldn't!"_

The lightest stroke was finally laid—pinpoint hair tips clinging to sensitive flesh—and Wolfram jerked convulsively under its influence, his blushing ears buzzing with amped-up excitement, scull knocking lightly against the carved marble of the pillar as he reared back.

"Ah! _No_, Yuuri!"

But he didn't_ mean_ 'no'.

The Maou extended his evil Demon King smile for another endless moment and majestically gave his reply to Wolf-chan's useless challenge – in the form of another, slightly fuller caress with the strands of butter-soft bristles, a searing swipe that traced a wicked path round the roseate bud, barely brushing its swollen edges. Wolfram shivered helplessly, biting his lower lip into rosy plumpness, his emerald eyes wordlessly pleading for the decadent fulfillment his fevered brain could barely imagine.

Wolf wanted—no, craved—Yuuri's touch, for this teasing was far too intimate, too over-the-top to be handled in isolation. He needed skin and mouth and bones pressing, the reassuring thump of a heart beating against his own.

"I- _ungh_! Yuuri!"

Another long stroke, painted down the stuttering heave of Wolf's ribcage, crisscrossing the one tortured nipple the devious Maou had concentrated all his efforts on thus far.

Wolfram gave up his false protests altogether and instead rocked back and forth on the heels of his boots, feebly thrusting as far as he was allowed against the insistent jut of the Maou's cotton-clad hip, gurgling random sounds of undeniable pleasure when the faint pressure provided fleeting satisfaction. The Maou grinned devilishly—he was stuck on that, it seemed— and followed up the most recent brushstroke with a hot, wet lick from his talented tongue, the edge of his teeth circling the auriole gently as he pulled away, so that his fiancé moaned outright and loudly, arching his proud head back and throwing all his slight weight forward against Yuuri's bare chest.

The Maou shoved him back instantly, touching him only at the initial points of entrapment, and Wolfram writhed futilely against his enforced captivity.

"You _bastard!_"

Wolf snarled his rising frustration, his light tenor furious – and laced with a strong undercurrent of undeniable lust. His cock was already seeping a clear, viscous substance, staining the purity of his military uniform, and his perfectly proportioned limbs were twitching nervously under a handsome face flushed with all manner of entangled emotions. He managed to bang an impatient fist against Yuuri's shoulder blade in silent retribution but made not a single move to protect his virtue.

This action—or lack thereof—was more than enough invitation for Yuuri, well used to Wolfram's habit of being unnecessarily difficult. Not that he needed an invitation or anything—Wolfram was already his.

As a reward for Wolf's tacit compliance, the Maou brought his lips gently to his fiancé's, licking and smoothing them with the utmost gentleness, and Wolfram sighed jerkily into the loving caress and allowed the tension in his arched spine to ease as their mouths melded gently together.

Quick as winking, Yuuri ripped his questing lips away and jabbed at the other nipple with the wide head of the brush, splaying it wantonly across the rigid nub. He glanced up to watch Wolf's expression carefully, a clear "What, me worry?" written across his gently mocking face, and instantly tensed as the white-knuckled fist Wolf had shoved fiercely against his nape sprang open and strong fingers dug into the base of his skull, forcibly urging the Maou closer to his hot-and-bothered betrothed. Wolfram, at least, was no wimp when it came to physical strength. And willpower, for that matter.

"Damn you all to Big Shimaron, Yuuri! Fucking _touch me_, you lousy wimp!" Wolfram commanded.

But the Mazoku still couldn't get close enough to touch Yuuri the way he so clearly wanted to, so he contented himself with pinching the still-red earlobe of his infuriating husband-to-be. If Yuuri couldn't be lead, he could be driven.

"_Fucking__** touch me!**__" _

The teenaged Maou winced at such harsh treatment–and Wolf's language, oh my!—and finally gave his Wolf-chan what he so desired: another ravaging kiss, one that tilted his blonde head all the way back and exposed the expanse of his swallowing, kiss-marked throat.

Wolf's angry outburst would've been a mite scary at almost any other time, but much of the force was leached from his signature roar by the continued swirl of tiny sable-hair follicles across one of his most sensitive spots. In moments, he was nearly drooling through Yuuri's deepening kisses, knees buckling under him from the terrible weakness engendered by the combination of brush sweep and tongue rammed down his throat. His erection was so swollen in anticipation it was downright painful and what little breath he'd left over when Yuuri at last let him go Wolf used to fling nasty imprecations in the face of his sweetly smiling fiancé.

"Bastard! Pervert! Fucking tease! _Yuu-riii_!"

"Whaat? You don't like it, Wolf-chan?"

Innocent eyebrows arrowed up in a dark puzzled arch—that bastard!—and the Mazoku noble snarled at such patent posing. Deceitful, evil, philandering cheater the Maou was—if he weren't helpless, he'd have something to say about Yuuri daring to look anyone like that, even him!

But the aura of the Great Maou was already fading, Wolf realized. No longer was he held powerless and gasping against a pillar in the sanctum of his own studio, meekly submitting to a being who very much overwhelmed him just by existing. Finally, _finally,_ here was Wolf's comfortable, _normal _Shibuya Yuuri again, ready to be treated to the haranguing of a lifetime—!

Though he _was _still a captive, actually. And Yuuri didn't seem to be particularly apologetic.

"Godsdamned _cheater!!_ Indolent _pervert!_ Scheming, lying, nefarious Great—would you just godsdamned **fuck me, Yuuri**_?! I want it!"_ Wolfram shouted and the young King grinned right back at his red face with that leftover deliciously evil grin he just could not seem to be shed of. Yuuri did so like invoking his formidable Maouish powers sometimes, even if the excuse was not exactly the misuse of 'Justice!'

"Oh, but I _will_, Wolf-cub," Yuuri drawled. "But, erm…could you just give me a quick minute here? Okay? It's—I'm…not quite finished this part yet."

The Maou's long-suffering fiancé gaped and then sighed helplessly under the beguilement of the combination of magical brush and sparkling black eyes full of sexual promise, lolling his spinning head back in wordless acceptance of His Majesty's foibles.

The bristles returned to his person, sweeping from one nipple to the other in a taunting figure eight and then tickling their sensuous way down to Wolfram's navel. With the barest minimum of contact, they rose again, painting invisible licks of fire up and down Wolf's torso, the palest of rose flushes following every vertical motion.

Eyes intent, Yuuri brought the brush to his mouth and sucked it in, tickling his own tongue and gums with the tip, wetting it thoroughly with a tongue full of saliva. Wolf uttered a helpless groan at that, too, so turned on he was well-nigh senseless.

The next pass was superlative–sable sleek with spit and borrowed heat, a chill rush of air following every movement. Wolf's tense muscles went limp in reaction and Yuuri had to hold the blonde soldier up by the waist as he dribbled the damp brush downward, teasing through the fine golden hairs that shaded up nearly invisibly from the waistband of Wolf's sagging britches. There was another generous sweep to follow, up and wide across Wolf-chan's shoulder blades, his clavicle, his sternum, and Yuuri's tongue avidly followed the path laid out by the brush the entire way, jaw gripping briefly at the jut of ribs, the slight inward curve of Wolfram's trim waist, the roll of one shoulder, marking them all for his own.

At the culmination of the final stroke of that particular sketch, Wolf was breathing only in harsh pants when he could manage breath at all, his fingers curled uselessly into loose fists and his proud head sagging, chin tucked to dampened collarbone. Yuuri slid his supportive arm farther up his fiancé's twitching back reflexively, protecting him from the scrape of stone at his spine, and began the next phase of his finely gauged assault, filaments finding their way along the hemmed edge and then just below the gap in the front of Wolf's unbuttoned blue waistband to touch the tip of Wolfram's weeping cock for the very first time, feathering about the engorged cock belted up there like the faintest sparks of gossamer flame, sublime and terrible.

It felt so good it was downright cruel.

"Oh…. Yuuri—"

Tiny starbursts of exquisite pleasure leapt up from every point of contact, real and imagined. Wolf's cock rippled and strained, full to bursting with the youthful juice of passion, responding blindly in the end to nothing but the waft of disturbed air currents the sable left behind in passing.

"Yuuri!"

With a last gasp, the Mazoku came spasmodically just as Yuuri finally got to the point of shoving his loosened uniform trousers down his thrusting hips, the accidental nudge of knuckles against purpling flesh all that was needed to send Wolf straight to cataclysmic orgasm. Cum spurted across the back of Yuuri's hand and spattered faintly onto the marble floor and Yuuri's striped uniform knickers. Wolfram rocked and twitched in uncontrolled waves atop legs locked and long gone numb from strain and nearly lost his normally sharp senses, his release was so enervating.

Anxious—for he'd seldom seen Wolf abandon his famous control to _this _extent—Yuuri dropped the expensive painting tool without thought and wrapped steadying arms around his quivering fiancé, carefully lowering them both to the floor. He cuddled the blonde in his lap, one arm under knees that shook like jelly, the other wrapped securely 'round Wolf's thin shoulders, and examined his precious Wolf-chan very carefully from tip to toe for injury. There they sprawled for an endless time, Wolfram eventually remembering to inhale on a regular basis. A concerned Yuuri spoke up as soon as he thought Wolf-chan might be capable of paying attention; he hadn't realized toys could be so….so _exciting_.

"Well, um. Was it, erm… _good_? Did-did you _like _it, Wolf-chan?"

Wolf's heavy eyelids had fallen shut in post-orgasm stupor; a fan of lengthy black lashes hid eyes of verdant green. He lay limp against Yuuri's shoulder, fingers weak where they grasped at Yuuri's bicep, and the Maou continued to cradle him when he didn't get an immediate answer. He waited with hard-won patience for his fiancé to consider the sensuous ordeal he'd just been put through and hoped against hope that Wolf-chan wasn't too mad at him for messing around with his art stuff. When Wolfram finally did part those swollen pink lips, though, it was to whisper something every red-blooded teenage boy dreamed of hearing in every lurid sexual fantasy ever dreamt.

"Take me, Yuuri," he murmured breathily into the arm and shoulder propping him. "Fuck me. _Please_. I _ache_ for you inside me."


	3. Chapter 3

**KKM 'Poser' Chapter 3**

Wolf slid a pale hand down Yuuri's naked chest, the tremor of his charcoal-stained fingertips softer even than the fine-haired artist's brush. Yuuri trembled in response, his brain finally graduating from lingering anxiety to processing in full the erotic vision he'd just seen occur before him – hell, he'd engineered it – well, maybe the Great Maou had done the actual engineering part, but _hoo boy!—_those were _his_ hands and _his_ lips that had brought Wolf-chan to this state of total lolling!

And this was _his _fiancé – wait a minute, he, Yuuri was both, wasn't he? Maou and Maou?–oh, damn it, he wasn't going to go 'round in those stupid self-questioning egocentric circles again—at least the Maou knew what to do and that was the most important—

This was his _fiancé _before him, begging to be fucked. Oh, _yeah._ Yuuri'd be happy to oblige. His baseball pants were probably permanently stretched out of shape anyway by what felt like a professional-grade steel bat snagged within them—if he could just free himself, he'd be on task in no time flat.

A moments fumbling with buttons and a shimmy and Yuuri's dick was springing out, diamond-hard and bobbing in anticipation. Yuuri eagerly stripped his pants and Wolf-chan's remaining clothing ruthlessly and one-handed and eased Wolf down on his back on the thickly carpeted floor in the meantime. Luckily, Yuuri's 'klutz factor' routinely deserted him when he was contemplating sex with Wolf-chan. He didn't why that was, exactly, but it was a good thing.

"You alright?" he asked when they were finally lying facing one another, nose-to-nose. Wolf wasn't usually this pliant after completion, nor this quiet. Yuuri's tiny frown of worry, if he'd but known it, had the same degree of loving concern that characterized his fiancé's usual Yuuri-watching expression.

"I didn't hurt you, did I?"

"_Mmm_. I'm _good_," Wolf-chan purred—or was that slurred? He sounded half out his mind still.

"_More _than good."

Green slits of satisfaction regarded the Maou. Wolf wasn't moving much of his own volition, still pretty much whipped by an orgasm that ranked an easy 'twelve' on the von Karbelnikoff Scale of Total Physical Satisfaction™.

"….But I _want _you, Yuuri," Wolf murmured. "Inside me. You prepared for that?"

Still, there was a hint of his old arrogant challenge in the softness of Wolf-chan's breathy question, Yuuri noted. All at once embarrassed for no reason by Wolf-chan's teasing and the excessively prurient sparkle in those emerald eyes he loved so much, Yuuri peered down at himself, checking.

Yup. _Very_ ready. Like there was any doubt about that when Wolf-chan was telling him what he 'wanted'! Didn't Yuuri pretty much live to please this infuriating creature he called 'fiancé'?

"Sooner, rather than later, Yuuri," Wolf smirked. He eased a pale shoulder back, providing Yuuri with a view of just what he was offering. The Maou spared a half-second to total possessive satisfaction when he saw the red indents of his fingertips still imprinted on Wolf-chan's upper arms—oh, Shinou, but he did enjoy showing Wolf-chan just who belonged to whom on occasion! 'Course, Wolf always took that as a challenge and had to retaliate in the sexiest of ways and then it was Yuuri's turn to be reduced to gummy porridge—

"B-But what about…preparation?" Yuuri stuttered, forcibly dragging his mind back to the matter at hand, one hand hovering over his fiancé's chiseled hipbone. He gestured in helplessness before the concept of just going at it like horny rabbits. Warthogs. Sandbears—If he hurt Wolf-chan, he'd be no more than a monster.

"I don't think you need it, wimp," Wolfram actually grinned, reaching out a limp hand to pinch at Yuuri's nose. "I don't think I've ever been _this_ relaxed in my lifetime."

He took the hand back and smoothed it down the fluent curve of his thigh, rolling over just enough to give Yuuri access to the sticky, still attractively flushed area between his thighs.

"Come on, Yuuri," he murmured. "Please."

"Oh, _Gods_!"

The _smell_ of him! The way he _looked_—_Sheesh!_ The Maou had Wolf-chan covered in the blink of an eye, settling himself firmly between legs the color of sweet cream, hands set firmly on Wolf's smooth, muscled haunches. He rocked his groin against the welcome heat and felt the answering swell of Wolf-chan's interest as he gasped and responded, jerkily arching the small of his back and opening his knees wider.

"Are you sure, Wolf-chan?" Yuuri took a moment – dragged it out of himself with force, really – to carefully look over the blonde lovely sprawled out willing and ready beneath him.

"Are you…positive?"

The tip of his cock was already poised, waiting. One thrust and he'd be inside heaven and Wolf-chan was lubed in a fashion with the remnants of his own orgasm and the liquid seeping from the Maou's swollen head. Moaning, Wolfram rolled his hips and pulled his knees back farther, bracing them against Yuuri's shoulders, clamping his calves against Yuuri's ribcage. He smiled up at Yuuri as he made himself ready, emerald eyes wide and trusting, and Yuuri marveled at the angelic sweetness all that rough-and-ready military bravado disguised on a daily basis. Through absolutely no fault of his own, he'd been chosen by an angel – over and over again.

"Please, Yuuri?"

One thrust and he _was_ there, pushing past the tense rim of muscle, and Wolf-chan had been correct about his readiness. There was no resistance, no pain, only the exhilarating slide through a channel just tight enough to make him shiver, just loose enough to make him nudge comfortably within till he was lodged there, his pulsing scrotum swinging gently against the crack of Wolf's bottom. Wolf curled himself up, hips cocked to take Yuuri in deeper, and closed his brilliant eyes.

"_Mmm_, Yuuri," sighed his fiancé. "You're so fucking hard – now, _move!"_

The Maou bucked as if the Mazoku had sent a stinging whip across his own clenched asscheeks. He surged harder, taking Wolf's breath by force, and then drew back in a scrambling rush, only to surge wildly forward again. The upward rise of retreat and storming wave of forward motion found Wolfram's sweet spot immediately and the Mazoku had to work hard not to cum again in the space of the first two thrusts.

Wolf gritted his white teeth together and grabbed at Yuuri's black hair instead, a rough hand curving round the back of the Maou's neck and urging him forward. The kiss was brief, nearly non-existent, as Yuuri arched his back and hips into the pounding movements, but still immensely satisfying for a devoted lover who desired any form of contact with his beloved he could devise.

Wolfram was great at _ad hoc_ devising. He caught at Yuuri's reddened earlobe on the next sweep, licking it with care as it slid by him, nibbling it when the Maou reared his touseled black head back on the return. Yuuri buried his nose in the mass of fragrant blonde strands the next time he crashed downward and inhaled the sweat-dampened perfume of them deeply, lips brushing Wolf's cheekbone on the way back.

Wolf bit the Maou's collarbone on the pass after that, marking him, wrapping wiry arms around Yuuri's wide back and struggling up to match up to the rapid rhythm of the Maou's pace. His balls were tight; his insides had been churned to a froth of magma and it was close to overflowing – he only wanted Yuuri with him when he fell off the cliff.

Yuuri hissed, ramming home again, the air whistling between his teeth, and felt himself nearly at his limit. Wolf was so good, so incredibly satisfying, and he always tried to stretch these moments out for as long as he possibly could. The very air was rarified here, at the top of his world, his life, and he could only breathe it through the filter of Wolf-chan's kisses.

But it was too late: Yuuri's recognition of how close he was only focused attention on the sliding bulk of hardened muscle milked hungrily by clinging, pulsing flesh. Yuuri watched himself sink in to the hilt, fascinated by the clutch and the pull, his mouth hanging open with wonder at such a heart-throbbingly poignant act of love. How Wolf must trust him, to let him do this…..When Wolf finally shuddered faintly with that first, telltale sign of imminent release, gurgling something wordless and needy, Yuuri nearly bit his own tongue off in his rush to catch up.

He used all his hard-earned muscles then, hammering down harder and harder with every twitch and electrified frisson of his lover's body heat surrounding him. He wanted to give Wolfram all of it, every drop of what made him 'Yuuri', every molecule of essence: to ensure their continued connection, to mark Wolfram von Bielefeld as the possession of a very possessive Maou.

"Uhn."

"Wolfram!"

"Uhn…_**uhn!**_ Yuuriii!"

Perfectly in time, perfectly together, the Maou and his beloved flung themselves out into the pleasure of no-where and no-when, falling as their bodies flamed and brilliantly burned away to wisps of curling smoke. Freefall like that couldn't be replicated; not even Maou magic could do it—only Wolf-chan, only Yuuri.

When Wolfram landed, it was to realize his favorite layering brush was digging sharply into his aching spine. He shifted, rolling an exhausted Yuuri off him, and reached around to pry it from beneath him.

The sable bristles were sadly bent and some were missing altogether; the whole wooden base soaked through and now warping with sweat.

He huffed in indignation and glared at the culprit. Yuuri, who'd just opened his eyes to find himself haphazardly strewn all over the studio's ancient paint-spotted carpet, had the grace to look at least mildly apologetic.

"I'll…I'll buy you a new one, Wolf-chan" he wheezed, attempting to sit up. "I promise."

He was – they were – sticky with cum and saliva and dusty with charcoal smears and leftover dirt from the playing field. Wolf's glorious golden tresses were a mess, matted and twisted into spit curls and clinging damply to his marvelous cheekbones. Their respective clothes were everywhere, tossed without regard, and somehow the easel had gotten knocked over and Wolf's prized canvas lay askew behind them. Pristine brushes were scattered as well, forlorn and out-of-place on the neglected floor of Wolf's sanctum. It seemed as though a windstorm had blown through the studio; only the lack of shattered glass signified differently.

"Yuuri!"

"…Um, how about a bath now, Wolf-chan?" Yuuri scrambled to come up with a diversion that would please his high-and-mighty fiancé. "I'll help you clean up afterwards, okay?"

"Yuuu-rrrii!"

"O-Okay, Wolf-chan?" Yuuri gulped.

"I love you, you know," he offered hopefully, already ducking his head down in anticipation of Wolfram's wrath at the destruction they'd wreaked between them. That it wasn't just _his_ fault wasn't important, he knew – for Wolf, it was always _his fault_, no matter what happened. Why he didn't mind that so much anymore, only Shinou knew.

His confession was greeted with a small silence. Yuuri dared not raise his eyes, still clinging for comfort to his last memorable vision of a fiancé writhing wantonly under him as they came in unison.

"…Really? You promise, you unreliable wimp?"

Wolf-chan smoothed the brush gently, straightening the bristles with care, and then set it aside. His emerald eyes were sparkling and when Yuuri met them, he was easily entranced again. The Maou stirred within him and his own dark eyes narrowed in a way very familiar to his naked blonde companion. Wolfram grinned, quirking a 'come-hither' eyebrow, though the frown that immediately followed the reluctant smile was very frightening indeed.

"You'd better mean that, Yuuri, or I'll—"

Wolf-chan stopped mid-sentence and heaved himself up, crawling towards Yuuri on hands-and-knees in a rather cute-but-still-quite-threatening fashion, clearly intending some form of physical punishment. Yuuri, acting quickly, came up with a surefire defensive tactic: Wolf-chan was captured immediately and wrestled back onto the carpet in a flash, arms and legs flailing, while the triumphant Maou pinned him there in a style similar to judo, but really more resembling a simple bear hug.

"_Pft_! Sheesh, wimp! It's not like I'm trying to escape here, you know?" Wolf groused, but Yuuri only slid his arms more tightly around his prize and held on for dear life, snuggling into the brilliant fire that filled his days and warmed his nights.

He shook his head against the panting heat of Wolf's chest, throat thick with words that always had trouble coming unstuck.

There was a reason why he always ended up in Wolf's studio, a victim of a fly-by artistic guerilla, no matter how inconvenient it always was at the time. It was the same reason he thought of when occupied with scrubbing Wolf's back down in the baths; the same one he was sure of when Wolfram jostled him aside, only to stand in front of him back on Earth, blindly protecting him from roaring traffic and potentially dangerous train turnstiles and curious schoolgirls. It was nearly the reason for his whole existence now, this knowledge…this intensity of emotion, and he didn't mind that in the slightest, as long as his reason was right beside him.

"Love you," Yuuri mumbled creakily into one of those perfectly shaped nipples. He waited for the response, trying to disguise the fact he'd stopped inhaling, and finally had to bring his pouty face in very close to that faintly smiling one, even though he knew full well what Wolfram's answer would always be. Disgruntled green eyes glared up at him and Wolf-chan heaved a sulky breath.

"Me, too, wimp," he admitted, "but that doesn't help with this mess. What are _you_ going to do about it, huh?" he demanded offensively, nipping Yuuri's chin for emphasis. "Answer me, Yuuri! Sweet talk isn't going to clean this up!"

But Wolfram's responsive body was far more of a sweet-talker than his acid mouth – his milk-and-rose hued length was already tellingly hard against Yuuri's inner thigh. His calloused fingers were wrapped around Yuuri's upper arms firmly, automatically, with no sign of any 'pushing away' happening anytime soon.

His glorious eyes reflected that liquid shine they always had when Yuuri was close by: hot, loving, desirous – deeper than any well or ocean, harboring both the promise and the fulfillment – all Yuuri would ever really need, when it came down to it.

"I'll…uh—I'll scrub your back!" Yuuri promised – _and your front_,_ too,_ he swore to himself – and tried not to drown too much in the impossible fathoms of emerald-gold.

"But that's _my_ job, idiot! Not good enough, wimp; do _better_—!" Wolfram protested whilst he still had the chance, but still, it was quite some time before either of them made it as far as the baths and a much longer time before Yuuri could fulfill the other of his two promises.


End file.
